i know too much about serial killers

and electricity

read too much

dream too much

write too much

i like meaningless things

obscure trivia

random thoughts

and sitting in the dark staring at nothing

hate being alone for extended periods

tend to stay alone for extended periods

thinking about things

odd things

sad things

how to fix things

so many broken things

a menagerie of broken dreams

can’t keep my word to myself

said today was about finishing my story

no shitty poetry

yet here i am

in need of some sort of validation

proof i exist

not sure i do anymore

not sure of much

gives me something to think about

when i lay in the dark

contemplating my navel as the world falls apart

it’s my thing

one of my quirks

my kinks

a way of smoothing the jagged edges

polish up the hurt

lost

lost

spiralling down

all alone

slipping through the fabric of reality

one pixel at a time